Chapter eight: The Man in the Mirror
Harry was losing himself.
The days blurred together. His thoughts weren't always his own. He would start walking somewhere, only to realize he had no idea where he had been going. He would catch himself humming strange songs—marching tunes from a past he didn't remember. Words slipped into his head, foreign phrases that felt too familiar.
And worst of all, the nights were getting worse.
He was afraid to sleep now.
Because every time he did…
He woke up somewhere else.
--
Another Missing Night
The room was dark when Harry's eyes snapped open.
His breath was slow. Controlled. His grip was tight—on something.
And then—
The realization hit him like a curse.
His fingers were curled around a knife. A Muggle knife. And the blade was just inches away from Ron's exposed throat.
Ron, who was still sleeping.
Harry's body went rigid. His heart slammed against his ribs as his hands shook—and he scrambled back, the knife clattering to the floor.
His breathing turned ragged, his mind screaming at him to understand.
What the fuck just happened?
He looked down at his shaking hands. The worst part wasn't that he had been holding a knife over his best friend in the middle of the night.
The worst part was that—
For a second, just a second—
It had felt right.
"Ah. So you finally noticed."
Harry froze.
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. The room was colder, the air heavy with something sickly. The ghost was here.
"It was inevitable, Junge," Hitler's voice was smooth, almost amused. "You cannot keep pretending this isn't happening."
Harry's fingers dug into his own arms. "Shut up," he whispered.
"You act as if you did not enjoy it. The control. The silence. The power."
Harry shook his head, trying to steady his breathing. "I didn't— I wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't you?"
The whisper was right next to his ear now. Cold breath against his neck.
"You stood over him for a long time, Junge. You held your breath. Your grip did not tremble."
Harry wanted to scream. But Ron was still sleeping. Still alive.
For now.
He stumbled back, pressing himself against the wall. The knife was still on the floor, glinting in the moonlight. A part of him—some awful, unfamiliar part—wanted to pick it up again.
"Your hands did not hesitate," Hitler murmured. "Because you are starting to remember."
Harry shook, shoving his hands into his hair. "No. No, I—"
"Yes."
The word was a promise. A command.
Harry's chest heaved. He couldn't breathe.
Then—
Ron stirred.
Harry's stomach dropped.
If Ron woke up now, if he saw—
Harry bolted.
--
The Mirror Lies
He didn't stop running until he reached the bathroom.
The second the door slammed shut, he collapsed against the sink, gripping the edges like they were the only things keeping him tethered to reality.
His reflection was there. Staring back at him.
But it was wrong.
His face was pale, sweat-slicked, his eyes wide with panic. His lips parted as he gasped for breath. But something about it didn't feel like him.
And then—
The reflection smiled.
Harry didn't smile.
His heart stopped.
Slowly, slowly, the expression on his reflection twisted—his lips curling in something cold, something cruel.
"You see it now, don't you?"
The voice didn't come from behind him this time.
It came from his own mouth.
Harry jerked back, slamming into the wall. His reflection stayed still, the grin lingering for a moment longer before fading—leaving only his normal, horrified face staring back at him.
His hands trembled as he touched his own lips.
Did I just—
He couldn't finish the thought.
He wasn't alone in his own head anymore.
And the worst part?
He was starting to forget where he ended—
And where Hitler began.
--